


hypnotic and strange

by Haberdashery



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A BITCH, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Canon-Typical The Spiral Content (The Magnus Archives), Gen, Gertrude is redeemable, He/Him Pronouns for Michael Shelley, Hurt No Comfort, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Michael deserves better and doesn’t get it, No beta we kayak like Tim, Pre-Canon, Present Tense, at least, but redeemable, but vaguely, not here, not sure if this is actually readable or not, speaking of which, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29590092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haberdashery/pseuds/Haberdashery
Summary: “You left me to die,” Michael says, his voice broken, the betrayal clear in his plain, human voice. There is something under it, slightly distorted, but mirroring Michael’s pain. Michael (human, kind, still doesn’t quite understand), still believes that this might be just a misunderstanding, Michael(distortion, fury and rage boiling so close) realizes. Its hands stretch into long, spindly talons.(it hurts)—Au where Michael Shelley and Michael Distortion coexist in the same body. Chaos ensues, but it’s not like there was any other option.
Relationships: Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley, Michael | The Distortion & Michael Shelley, Michael|The Distortion & Gertrude Robinson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	hypnotic and strange

**Author's Note:**

> That #relatable feeling when you should really work on your other fics, but instead fall head over heels into a podcast and get really attached to a side character 
> 
> in other words, I hope you enjoy this 4 am fever induced extravaganza of questionable readability!  
> -  
> Not sure whether I’m going to expand on this au, but here’s a quick one shot just in case

It doesn’t have a name.

It is called the Distortion, by others, but this is just a word. They’re all just words. Jumbled. Scrambled beyond comprehension into that shaky not-becoming in the depths of no one’s mind.

They cannot, have not, never not, will not have noticed anything, no mouth, no eyes to see. No Eyes in this place. There never will not have been, in this place of lying.

It is celebrating.

The Twisting. Great, its attempt at a perpetual madness, to Distort and Warp the world. Spontaneous insanity was just as effective as a plan when it came to world domination, apparently.

The Distortion does not feel emotions, at least, like Others do, as it has no identity for the fickle feelings to attach to. But this is a very Spiraling version of pleasure, pleasant surprise, a perverted triumph as it remembers (doesn’tknow always knew never told) the taunts of the Others, the Strangers the Hunters the Spiders the Vast as it never has a plan, plans are too logical and ordered for these cascading, everchanging Hallways.

It has won. Finally, _finally,_ despite all setbacks and meddling Identities and Monsters like _it_ , the final, terrifying(terrific) Twisting has come to pass. This is its triumph.

In its pleasure, it let itself outwards, slightly, and manifests its Door in the hurricane eye(blinkblinkwink no Eyes in this place) of this perpetual storm. It revels in this full encompassing insanity, the impossiblehouse in the Impossiblemountains inthis Impossibleworld—

There is a woman. This is a fact, unable to be warped (distordedwronged) by this unidentity.

This is the Archivist.

An assistant, easier to muddle—yellow sandy hair, no corn, no like the sun, short and curly and longer than the length of this body and straight as a bone and close cropped and short and tall and very very worried.

The Distortion notices this. It does not notice but it notices this.

They are near its Door. Possessions notwithstanding, this Door is its. Not its, no identity, but a part of a part of its Corridors that are not from it.

(an analogy comes to it, stomachs and hands and direct ownership and whatnot. It tries not to describe itself often, but the discolored taste in this paradox of a simile is too delicious to pass up. It will deal with it disagreeing with its stomach later(hands, are the same, are they not? It does not have either, and yet it has so many)

The assistant, (the student ignorant fearful anxious malicious no not him the other the Archivist is Wrong) touches its door.

It opens, easily. The Distortion is not Looking. It does not even notice this as it revels in its victory, as it showers itself in the multitudinous Colors that are all so maddening and perfect—

And then there is something in its corridors and it is Wrong. Wrong like a fear of nothing in the dark, like the senses going Mad, and it is interrupted by the singing in the assistant with his hair and his bones.

Songs are easily warpeddistortedchanged to madness, and the Distortion knows many of the auditory sort. It knows this song, the letters, initials, a Journey a Town a Belief and the assistant is singing.

How long had it been since someone had sung in its Hallways?

No.

Unimportant.

It watches with no Eyes not its Eyes the Eyes linger on the assistant’s skin. His singing is shaking and he is Not Supposed to Be Here.

There is something warped in his mind, in the assistant’s mind, and the Distortion knows his name is Michael—

No.

There is no Michael. There is only the Distortion, there is no creeping doubt, there is no Human Identity and Fear and Cold here there is only Madness but there is a Person here and that Person is Wrong.

The Distortion follows the assistant(michaelmichaelmichael) as it is everywhere, but feels him closely as it maps his mind.

His hair is truly longer now, despite this place despite the Madness. He is still singing, shaky, voice not quite His not quite there not quite. Something melodicsomething deeper, something is undertoning his words, and the Distortion can feel itself move with the music, can feel it accompany with a small percussiondrumhit no—

It won’t, it can’t. This is impossible, and yet the Distortion revels in the impossible, and that paradox on its own should send a thrill through it, but there are no thrills no shining trills of fractaling shapes. There is only the assistant, the assistant (michaelmichaelmichaelmichael undertones its thoughts) that is opening doors and smashing mirrors and the Distortion cannot distort enough to prevent this.

It cannot notice, but perhaps it has always known this.

Something cracks very deeply inside the Distortion.

The Assistant has a Map.

No. No, this isn’t possible, there can be no maps in this place that makes no sense. There cannot be a way that the Identity has found this map, as this map does not exist. It has never existed, it will never never exist.

And yet it does. And the Identity has a map. And he is following it, despite the impossiblenonocantbeity, and it can’t warp the Corridors as the map is making it too straightforward, too logical, but this is how it has always been (?).

Something is happening to the Distortion. There is something happening to him and its thoughts are not quite unstable now, this forced entry is not okay there is something in his Hallways and it is _wrong—_

And it happens. And the Michael is singing and the Distortion is screaming in his mind.

And then it sees a figure in front of it, a Human with curly hair and a map gripped tight in his hands and the wildwild look of someone unable to See, who has been left to Die and Knows This Fact. It is in the hallways and it feels so much despair and hurt and betrayal and fear right in the very center of what it used to call an unidentity—

The Identity stops, its manic (joyousmaddneingfear) eyes resting on the Distortion, but the Distortion is everywhere. Everywhere it looks is the Distortion, except no. This is a place, and the Distortion is there.

And the Identity (assistanthumanichael) pauses, and a hand (toomanyjointstoomuchsubstance) reaches towards it, shaking, trembling, pale flesh swirling with spirals under his skin. His tears turn into raindrops turn into gumdrops turn into nothing at all, and the Distortion realizes it cannot move.

The Distortion is trapped.

A sound, screeching, like the brakes on a car echo through the Hallways, the panting and the sobbing broadcasted on the Intercom that the Identity brought with him. It hates it, hates this trapped feeling, and the reaching hand is so very very close and it cannot move away—

And then it is awake.

It is somewhere else, somewhere _bound,_ no longer unidentifiable, no longer without being or form. It is a Being. An identity is Its.

It is Michael.

But there is already a Michael in this head.

Michael(thedistortiondistordedfear) opens its eyes. There is something wrong, these are its hallways, of course, but this is not its body.

But it is.

A wave of emotion, new and uncertain and overpowering him, confusion and fear and dread.

Its hands (pale and multicolored) are long, and a small part of it (not him? Someone else? Still in his mind but it’s not his?) screams and flails and cries and holds on in its brain.

There are bones in its hand. There are bones in its mouth. It has so many bones, now.

Fear that is only its floods the body. His body. Their body?

There is someone else here, and it is changing. It feels Twisted, the Identity (that was now(not) its) squeezed and stretched and contorting into something that is Wrong, but not the wrong it deals with. This is something Other, something almost like logic that settles over him.

It feels a flash of something—hot and searing like a cauterized knife slash.

Oh. This is pain.

It _hurts._

Michael(human,assistant,veryverymuchafraid) and his human self return, regain consciousness, and Michael(distortion) is watching from its Eyes in the Back of his Mind as Michael(human, sobbing) collapses in the undulating hallways.

Michael(distortion, concerned, afraidandconfusedand Identity) understands, the fear that isn’t its channeling his own feelings of outrage (painpainpain). It is bound by Identity. This Michael is Him. It is tethered to this poorpoorsobbing human soul. It does not understand his feelings, but it understands this.

It knows who did this.

The Archivist must Pay.

Michael(distortion, disturbed, outragedbeyondbelief) moves into His Body, letting the other Michael(human, goes easily, fear ebbing back as he Understands) float nearby in the Mind, and the hair and the Bones in its Hands and its Clothing is Michael’s(distortion, realizing his own Body) again.

It knows the way through these Halls. Knows where the first Michael(human, mind mending, expanding, not dead yet) emerged, and knows what will be waiting for him there. It does not know why, not quite (the ideas are still too confusing, even for its messy paradox, and its mind _hurts_ with this logic). But it knows that there is a reason it is stuck now. Why its insides are twisting and why it feels so deeply (it hurtsithurtshurtshurts).

It feels.

Why is it feeling?

Something snaps in its mind as it yells at itself to get back on track (oh _god_ what has it become), and the desire to understand is not its, not quite. It is a lingering wonderingquestion, ebbing from the Michael (human, afraid, confused, doesn’tknowwhatishappening) and its Lord.

This Archivist. ( _this Gertrude_ ) The Human Michael thinks, and Michael(distortion, gentle for the Human’s sake, notquitepitypainpainpain) accepts this information. This Gertrude is waiting for him.

No.

She is waiting for Michael to be Distorted, to be Wrong, to be Not Him Anymore.

She knew.

She knew what would happen and she did not care.

A flare of pure fury, from it or Michael(human, waiting, doesn’t know quite what to do where is he?) he can’t tell.

It asks the Human without words (colors, shapes, and ideas are how the Distortion works) if this is alright. The human accepts, and now Michael (human, in charge now, the body is his and the fear has rubbed away to leave a numb shock that they will process later), short, human, sandy blonde haired Michael reaches the door he had Come From, and it opens with a soft click as the Distortion leaves its Hallways.

They are out of the House, now. It ceases to exist quietly behind them, without the Distortion holding it together, but Michael (distortion, something Wrong) can’t bring itself to care. It will care later, it knows. It will scream, and it will tear at its Identity, and it will claw with raggedangrysharpsharp nails and fingers at this Notflesh. It had gotten so close.

_So. Close._

But now it does not care. Now, it is completely focused on the Numb, on the Shock that has clouded its Being. It is so angry, but this feeling is not his. It is Michael’s, but Michael is It now. They are both Michael. Neither of them is Michael.

It doesn’t know. It never knows. It knows so little, and that shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

They are in the snow. Michael’s hair is long, curling at its feet, his hands almost longer as they drag across the ground. He can feel the Archivist’s madness, can taste it in the air, metallic and almostnotquite like blood. It sends a shiver through it, revulsion and need and fear (fear? It cannot be afraid, that is not possible—) course through it like another skin, losing some of its form and reforming it just as quickly.

(painpainpainit _hurts_ )

Michael(human, cold in the Russian snow, eyes a warm brown but red rimmed with tears) faces Gertrude(evilevilArchivistmustdie), her face a mask of cool shock.

She was walking away.

She did not think Michael would return.

“Michael?” she asks, her voice revealing more surprise. Her madness is almost tangible now, hanging in the air like droplets of blood(red and vibrant and as cold as her eyes) “How are you—”

“You left me to die,” Michael says, his voice broken, the betrayal clear in his plain, human voice. There is something under it, slightly distorted, but mirroring Michael’s pain. Michael (human, kind, still doesn’t quite understand), still believes that this might be just a misunderstanding, Michael(distortion, fury and rage boiling so close) realizes. Its hands stretch into long, spindly talons.

(it _hurts)_

Gertrude takes notice. She does not speak. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line. Michael’s hair length fluctuates rapidly, one minute ending at his shoulders and the next cascading down his body in loose curls that end at his feet.

“W **h** _y_?” the Human Michael asks, but the voice is almost not quite his, and his infinitely expanding inner self breaks and mends itself a thousand times again as he realizes this.

He is scared, Michael realizes. He is _scared._

Something undercurrents Michael (distortion, confusedconfusedpainpainpain)’s thoughts as it realizes this, something deep inside it, in its chest and in its eyes and in its veins (it doesn’t have) that pulls itself inward, deeper into the Michael (human, his fear cold liquid and reflecting oil)’s terror.

It _needs_ it.

it

needs

the

fear.

The revulsion almost matches the relief Michael feels when it drinks in Michael (human, does it understand?)’s terror. It drinks it all in—the confusion, the fear of his own madness and the insanity of what used to be Gertrude Robinson. Michael Shelley is so afraid of itself that the surplus of the horror overflows, enriches its own veins and floods its senses.

It sees stars, starvation abating into sheer need, drinking it all in to cure the dull hunger it doesn’t even know it felt until now. It feels like gold, leeching the terror out of its own skin with a ferocity that reminds it vaguely of the Hunters.

It stops at this analogy, and it feels sick in a core of its being that it didn’t realize it had.

Gertrude swallows, perhaps understanding the severity of the situation. (She must have felt the fear leave Michael’s blood, draining out of his fragile human mind like a drainplug pulled suddenly and without warning. Michael shivers at it feels the Eyes on its (not)skin, and wants to tear out all its newnew hair and scream and throw up and stop making sense stop _existing this feels so **wrong**_ ).

She seems to contemplate something. Michael (Shelley)’s cold dread solidifies like hot wax as she thinks.

All of a sudden, there is a map in her hands.

It is the map she had given to Michael (human, naïve, trying to save the world) just a few short millennia(minuteshourssecondstime) ago.

Michael thinks he (it? Is this an it?) is going to cry.

A malicious, terrible, and angry part of Michael(distortion, (it is not scared, it doesn’t _get_ scared, it _is_ the scarer)) laughs in terror. This was Not Alright, this was not a Good Insanity, and even though this should not be possible, Michael cannot find comfort in itself. It is Twisted, warped and Disfigured in a way it can’t comprehend, and the emotions are too loud for this small (toolargetoomany) mind. The Fear still ebbs through it, but not in the pure liquid screams that power its madness. It sits inside itself slightly off kilter, like riding on one of those carousel rides that goes slightly too fast.

It can feel its heart in its left elbow. It shifts, and it is gone.

It stares at the woman, the Archivist, her cold eyes calculating this situation, watching Michael intently and yet with a disconnect. Like she does not care whether they live or die.

This was on her.

The only thing keeping Michael(distortion, long long hands, so very, very angry) down, at bay, not shredding the Archivist’s mind into a thousand million screaming pieces is the quiet, sobbing Michael(human, so, so human), who was on his knees, the air around him fuzzing out and swirling with colors that shouldn’t have even been possible—

“It was the only way,” Gertrude says, her voice betraying no emotion. There are Eyes, so many Eyes, covering her and in the air. Static fuzzes the air around her, but it is nothing compared to the bells, the sirens, the (quiet microwave frantically beeping) in Michael’s ears.

“to **bind me?”** Michael(distortion, angry, towering over this Gertrude who had decided its fate.)A spiraling laugh, a million tiny madnesses hidden in the sound. “ **That was very stupid, Archivist.”** A sharp smile overcomes its face, although Michael(human, quiet, hiding from this confrontation)’s tears still filter through.

“You will not harm me, Distortion,” Gertrude warns, all her Eyes trained on Michael, who laughs again, the sound like a thousand migraines wrapped in a sealed plastic bag. (pandora’s box, it thinks with a Twisted grin. It should not know this, but it makes the coherent analogy with an internal scream of anguish).

“ **That is not my name,”** Michael corrects, long, long hands splayed at its sides. “ **I have an identity now, thanks to you!”** A terrible smile, eyes shining and spiraling into something not unlike a whirlpool. They solidify into hot steel in a second, sharpening and darkening as it speaks. “ **You call me Michael.”**

Gertrude shakes her head, face pinched. “No. _He_ was Michael. You are the Distortion. And it was the Only Way.” She says this part to herself, forcefully. “You are not him, Distortion.”

A bubbly laugh, grinning with sharp swirling teeth. “ **Oh, silly Archivist! _Your_ Michael is here, too, if you’d like to see him. Your messy merging left much of our consciousness separate!” **Michael’s eyes flare with green and purple lights, halfway down its face and melting. “ **But for the important parts, for, oh I don’t know…”** Michael taps its too-long fingers against his cheek, one at a time. “ **Our _body,_ perhaps…” **a snarl, or a laugh, or a scream, or a sob, from Michael(human, openly sobbing, eyes wet and red and ruddy) or Michael(very, very close to murdering the Archivist) it is impossible to tell. “ **We share one and the same, now.”**

Gertrude’s Eyes, her main ones, are round in what Michael can only guess is surprise. This gives it a small sense of triumph. Something the Archivist didn’t plan for. Something she didn’t Know.

“No,” she says, disbelieving. “No, that’s not...not possible. Michael is gone. I—”

“ **You tried to kill him!”** Michael finishes. “ **To contain me, you sacrificed him!** ” A laugh, this one breathy and filled with Michael(human, crying, betrayal finally coming through)’s shock and emotion. “You **sacrificed** me!”

Gertrude’s Eyes are blinking rapidly. They know this as the truth. This is Michael, but so is Michael, and the body is vaguely humanoid now. Michael (human, turtleneck jumper and large puffy jacket)’s form is more apparent, stepping back from Gertrude and leaning on the doorframe. He’s breathing heavily, eyes (lowercase, now) staring at the Archivist with the light of someone who’s world has just been forcefully expanded in a terrible way.

Michael feels quite the same. It sympathizes, which turns into a spiral of emotions it should not be able to understand.

It doesn’t.

Michael(distortion, concerned, furious) feels him. Its own emotions are warped (the fear it drank still fresh and festering in its being), not used to them, unacclimated to this strangenewworld environment, and in this emotion it knows that he cannot kill the Archivist.

Michael (human, too good, too pure, too trustingtoonaive) cannot kill the Archivist.

“ **He is too good for you,”** Michael hums, its own eyes pulsing with a multicolored spiral of insanity as it screams inside its mind. “ **You will pay for this, Archivist, mark my words.”**

Gertrude seems at a loss for words, and the rage that overflows in Michael (distortion, shaking with anger, hands curling at his sides) is held back by this Human who is maybe not quite Human anymore.

It cannot breathe. It doesn’t want to feel anymore.

Yes, that was fun, please go back to Michael Shelley now, and leave me alone, it thinks, and immediately cringes at the use of _me,_ a personal pronoun when it should not have a person.

It is so, so tired.

Michael (human, terrified, betrayed, but also exhausted ) guides the newly emotional Distortion to the Corridors, leaving Gertrude with her Eyes in the snow. Their hands drag against the ground.

Michael feels nothing but the cold in its hands, focuses on that, strains his ears to hear the rustle of snow against the bones. It is the wrong kind of wet clacking, but the kind of wrong that it specializes in. 

It settles itself, slightly.

They collapse, together, there and then on the shifting floor of the Hallways, the door closing behind them dutifully. It _is_ still part of them, after all. 

They lay there, and Michael breaths, ragged and calm and smooth and emotions melding together seamlessly like they had never been separate.

Michael sleeps for the very first time as one.

….

Michael, the Distortion, carries their body to the Human (Michael)’s bed.

It gets strange, fearful stares, as it has to rely on an already existing door (it is too exhausted to manifest one, too overwhelmed to care), the one in the Lobby of this Apartment Complex. The receptionist stares at it, but Michael is too tired (a Human emotion, a Human feeling, but definitely its. This was its feeling.) to care. It quietly lets her into a Spiral of vivid lucid dreams, so this encounter, even if she remembers it, makes sense to her.

It finds the Human Michael’s apartment easily. It says their name on the front.

They share that name, now.

It isn’t quite sure how to think about that, yet. Its thoughts are still disconnected, fragmented ceramic markers ever-expanding and acclimating to this human state.

It can feel the Michael Shelley’s fear running through their body, and it gives it a shiver of both disgust and fullness. It isn’t truly _his_ fear, but Michael Shelley is a very potent host. His fear is tinged with gold and silver flecks, clean fluid trickling and manifesting even this amount of time after the fact.

It feels a rousing disgust at that.

It isn’t human, this it knows. And Michael Shelley isn’t either, anymore.

But it feels emotions now. It feels something rising deep within its bones (in its hands), and it forces it down with a inward snarl. Its fingers close around the door handle, somehow able to grasp it despite the fingers now digging into the wood and its palm.

This is not a Distortion thing to do. Michael knows this.

But that exhaustion, that weary run-down threadbare fatigue was its, and that was a very, very Human thing to feel.

It will deal with this when it wakes from its first sleep, it decides. 

It is not ready, yet.

…

Michael Shelley finds himself in his bed.

A pinching hope courses through his body—was it a dream? That trip, that Door, that feeling that the world was caving in and Twisting around him was gone now, wasn’t it? It was a dream. Of course it was a dream.

The remnants of the dream (memorymemorymemory) fade from his mind, masked and pulled back to the shaky not-becomings of his mind.

(where did that come from? Michael is not one for strange metaphors. He brushes it away, leaving it with the strangeness of the dream he is rapidly forgetting (he will never forget.))

He lets out a breathy laugh. Thank god. Oh, thank god. He’s alright, and the whole trip to Russia was just a made up terror, and he’ll go into work today and give Mrs. Robinson her tea, and then sit down and do some follow up on that statement he’s been working on. Hayley Werner’s, with the spinning stars.

(he doesn’t notice his too long hair getting into his face. he doesn’t notice the swirling fractals in the air around him. he doesn’t notice the too many doors in the room with him)

Michael sits up as he goes to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

Something scratches his face, too sharp and leaving a long streak of red (purplegreenvividblue) on his face.

He looks down, and his hands are too long.

He screams.

**Author's Note:**

> Critiques are always appreciated!


End file.
